


In the garden

by caricari



Series: BT Tower Telephone Group H [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Just two supernatural entities, M/M, Mild Smut, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), getting it on in a garden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari
Summary: Some mild smut in a garden.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BT Tower Telephone Group H [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937899
Comments: 10
Kudos: 116
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	In the garden

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Verdant Confession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26652643) by [miraworos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos). 



> Written for the **Do It With Style Events BT Tower Telephone** event. The whole rest of this chain is brilliant. If you've not read it already, please cancel all of your plans and do so now. :)

.

Crowley walks through the garden on light feet, barely disturbing the dew. His warm breath rises in spirals through the cool night air - up to the sky and the myriad pinprick lights nestled there. The sight draws a faint nostalgia from the demon's chest. (But not longing. Not anymore. There is more keeping him tied to the earth than pulling him from it, now).

Giving a sigh, he looks back down, takes another step along the path.

The garden around him is a blurred shadowscape of trees and flowering shrubs. He has known about as many gardens as stars, now, Crowley thinks, and all of them different. There have been militantly organised vegetable patches, and wild places with no discernible walkways; purposeful herb gardens, and luxurious pleasure lawns. This place is an amalgamation of the lot, born of his own hands.

Reaching down, Crowley brushes over the frilled leaf of a heucheras. He had chosen this plant for its texture. The tree to its left, for its shape. Others are picked for their scent. The bellflower, on a warm day, smells like the hills outside Jerusalem. The marjoram brings back visions of Memphis. It is an ode to his memory, this garden. All of it intended. All of it chosen.

The garden’s other occupant is the most chosen of all.

Crowley looks up as his friend emerges from the back door of the cottage, carrying two glasses and clearly searching for him.

Standing in the shade of a small plum tree, he stays still and silent until the angel draws close.

”Aziraphale."

"Oh!" Aziraphale jumps and turns on the spot, a smile breaking over his face as he recognises the demon. “There you are… I thought I'd come and see what you were up to." He looks down at a blanket, laid out on the nearby grass, then up at the sky. "Thinking about stars?"

It's a phrase Crowley uses, sometimes, to explain the need to go off by himself. Aziraphale has taken to parroting it - among other speech patterns. Crowley suspects the angel read about the practice in some book on communication in relationships and, thus, has taken it upon himself not to mock. It is rather nice to know that the angel is listening, after all. He enjoys feeling heard. 

"Thinking about gardens," he tells his friend, quietly. "And you.” 

"Oh." Aziraphale blinks, then gives a smile which makes the squirm of nerves Crowley feels worthwhile - which makes all of it worthwhile. “And here I was thinking you might still be annoyed at my teasing you, earlier...”

“Well, you were a bit cruel.” Crowley steps forwards. "Despite my pale and doughy exterior, I maintain that I could have moved that cabinet without magic."

“Of course.”

“And without your assistance.”

“If you say so, dear.”

“I do say so." He eyes the angel. “Titillating as it is to watch you heft things about the place without breaking a sweat.”

The humour is to indicate that their argument is over - that he doesn't want to prove a point.

It is well received. Aziraphale's eyes soften.

“Am I forgiven, then?”

Crowley makes a show of checking his watch.

“Yeah. For about five minutes, now."

"Excellent." The angel offers out a glass - which turns out to contain port. "Right on time.”

Crowley takes his drink and sips, savouring the notes of oak and cherry.

“In the spirit of the thing, you should let me lift it on my own, next time," he suggests, after a pause. “You can always show off by lifting me onto it, afterwards. Show me how impressed you are with my wiles…”

"I _have_ always been very impressed by your wiles.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle. “Do you mind if I accompany you, for a while?”

“Yeah. Go on.”

They sit on the blanket and gaze up, at the sky. Crowley points out his stars, giving them all sorts of silly names - because he knows that Aziraphale knows enough astronomy to call him on the lies and because he loves a tease. He loves the sensation of his friend jostling his shoulder while admonishing him. He loves the way their playful movements draw them closer, into a kiss. And then another, and another, until they are sliding back onto the blanket, twining themselves around one another.

His glass is knocked over by an errant foot, before the port inside is done. Aziraphale’s somehow remains upright. (Physics seems to work differently for each of them. Always has done. Crowley finds he does not mind).

They kiss until Aziraphale draws back, breathless, his eyes very bright.

“Do you want me?”

“Don’t be a prat.”

“Crowley…”

Rolling his eyes, the demon pushes himself up on one hand, intending to crawl up over his friend and make himself more available.

“Yes, you idiot. I want you. Physically. Existentially. All that jazz…” he stumbles, halfway through his crawl, but Aziraphale catches him with one hand at his hip. “See? You make me weak at the knees. Loins all a-quiver.”

The angel chuckles.

Crowley leans over him, pressing their foreheads together.

“Yes. I want you,” he mumbles, quieter.

Aziraphale breathes out - a sound like the wind chasing through the leaves above.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They don’t speak as they undress. They just watch. And touch. Their private eden is so remote that they feel safe, being exposed, tracing fingers across skin pricked with gooseflesh, drawing sighs from one another’s lips. 

Plastered flat against the back of his friend, the cold doesn’t matter. Crowley feels like they’ve formed some sort of barrier, with the intensity of their need. Tracing his mouth along Aziraphale’s neck, his fingers slide over the hot flesh between his legs, and he draws a miracle of oil - just enough to heighten the sensation - to make the angel squirm and arch against him. Then, eventually, enough for him to welcome Crowley inside, into the heat of him.

They take their time. They always take their time. If not with this part, then with those that come after. They have gone too long not-touching to sell themselves short on this luxury. And as Crowley slides himself home he does not bother to muffle his whine of pleasure. He groans out his friend’s name, kneading into the flesh of him, anchoring himself as the angel pushes back, taking what he wants.

This is all he needs, Crowley thinks, feeling Aziraphale begin to break, the tension rising in his own spine. This connection might be all he’s ever needed. Safety in the darkness. Someone to be with. To trust. It’s different to what he’s lost, but better. It’s everything, he thinks, as his friend slides his hand down to finish himself off - as he rubs his own fingers over the soft flesh of a nipple, to help the angel along. Aziraphale is everything.

He comes slow, in the last shudders of his partner’s climax, nose buried in the hair behind his ear. And when his mind draws back together, it is to the sensation of Aziraphale pulling a warm blanket around the pair of them.

“Can we stay here forever?” He mumbles, only half joking.

Aziraphale gives a soft laugh, pressing back against him.

“I’ll give you until you start shivering, but then I’m snapping us both straight back inside.”

“Deal,” Crowley mutters, wriggling a bit closer, revelling in the human mess and wonder of it all - the sweat and spend between them, the way their hearts are still beating too fast.

The cold doesn’t matter, pressed together. 

He turns his head slightly to the side and stares up at the stars.

.


End file.
